Monday, October 8, 2012

MET EISH JA!

I believe I have Miss Voorimaal to thank for this one.

I really pushed it this weekend! While everyone and my sister were away whooping it up at Rocking The Daisies, I was on a mission to squeeze as much life out of, well, living, as possible. It all started on Friday when some of the old gang and I finally got it together to play a 5-a-side football match. The courts are quite nice in that you don't spend half the time chasing the ball down the road or scampering down a hill to retrieve it. The only problem there is that I quite enjoyed the breather that afforded me. These death match cages offer no respite. Consequently my new football nick name is "Chalk Outline"... I preferred the old one, except I can't for the life of me remember what it was...

That was followed by the obligatory "one pint" which inevitably ended in me getting shitfaced and giggling like a little girl when I eventually came home. Thanks gents!

Saturday morning had been earmarked for a jog with the Hot Girlfriend, who had been making snide little suggestions that I was in trouble. So there we were. Stretches complete we were off. Bringing up the rear merely because I was enjoying the view, I hit the first snag and nearly collapsed in a dead possum faint. The flock of seagulls and pigeons feeding on a heap of bread left there by some right bastard had been evading my radar until I was almost upon it, at which time I took evasive action and was very suddenly roughly 20m elsewhere jogging on the road. The Hot Girlfriend managed to startle the crowded harbingers of the Devil into a mass take off which I'm almost certain was aimed solely at me. It was like being stuck in time. Slow motion poop rained from the skies as the shrill caws of demonic intent filled the air!
Somehow I managed to keep life, limb and dignity together and put the swirling cloud of featherad and beaked death behind me without sharting my pants. It got a lot more pleasant after that. Turns out I'm not the world's most useless Bruce Fordyce impersonator after all...

Then it was the much anticipated trip to the Ice Rink. I have very fond, if fuzzy, memories of ice skating with my friends in high school. To give you an approximation of how long ago that is, let's just say I got a quality education...

We were greeted by a queue that belonged at the Lottery ticket office when there's a guaranteed R30million on offer. The geniuses who organised this showcase of becoming one with the ice failed to take into consideration the fact that it was school holidays. The black cloud above my head began to solidify. Once inside, the queue for skates was even longer... The skates! Ah the skates! I'd put on super extra thick Everest expedition socks, but nothing could counteract the sheer unpleasant, unyielding and downright misshapen things I was expected to strap around my feet. Now I am a firm believer in making sure my feet are at all times well looked after/supported/pampered. It's like buying good tyres for your car. You can imagine the anguished not-so-under-my-breath complaints... And don't get me started on the stench.

Once on the ice, I decided to make the best of it and gave myself an experimental push away from the safety of the side wall. Mainly because I am male, remember being able to do this, and saw my good pal The Greek flying around like a portly Kristi Yamaguchi. The ice was hobbly! And I was surrounded by 16million children who were all exactly the same height. Crotch headbutt height. They also zigzagged like a tribe of flustered Guinea Fowl. I tried to hide my trepidation by helping the Hot Girlfriend around the rink. Then I gave Bimsi a hand as well. Finally I decided to give it a go solo and after a few false starts, surprised everyone (including myself) by staying upright and actually zooting around the rink with something resembling speedy grace. However. The minute I got a bit cocky or confident, I was sharply reminded by my acute lack of centre of gravity and that of the Universe in general precisely who was in charge. It was an exercise in humility, intense concentration and permanently dodging unpredictable little obstacles. Perhaps I should have played my computer games...

Anyway, the bunch of friends were all sitting at one corner (either taking a break or too medically challenged to be skating themselves) forming quite the enthusiastic audience. Or maybe that's just a perception built into me. I was especially aware of trying not to end up arse first in the wall or straddling a small child as I ate ice when I flitted past their scrutiny. Alas, twice I was the source of their unbridled mirth as I almost wiped out - doing a very unflattering tip toe triple trying to regain balance and composure - leaving a wake of ice chunks Sharon Stone herself would have been proud to have made. Be that as it may, I still didn't fall.
I came much closer at the other end of the rink. Me-Swifty and I were doing a lap and found - much to our delight - open ice in front of us - and we were off! Looking like graceful Olympic athletes we zooted off at a 100km/h towards the fast approaching barrier. Taking the turn like Jeremy Clarkson in a Bugatti Veyron, I spun out of control into a series of magnificently manic pirouettes. Three to be exact, each accompanied by more wildly flailing arms than the last. It was like Don Quixote on ice. Only I didn't get lanced in a gallant effort at chivalry. Instead I think Me-Swifty wet herself laughing so hard.

Still. I didn't fall.

Anyway, after a quick pint with the birthday girl and the rest of the entourage, we stopped off at Canal Walk on the way to our next engagement. By the time we got half way to the store we were aiming for I had to stop. My right knee (and both sets of calves, hamstrings, and groin and thigh muscles) simply refused any further perambulation. Any attempt to persuade them otherwise resulted in a pain so indescribable it would be futile to try. So hobbling in agony, we made it home and promptly decided not to join our friends and their magical forest night hike missions. Ah, the joys of age...

Sunday morning's first sprint to the bathroom was not a pleasant experience. Unfortunately my bedridden convalescence was short lived, as we had plans to take Rose Thorn and Commander Conker wine tasting. First stop (after some minor make up repair) was Eagle's Nest. I like it there. It offers a nice secluded experience and makes you feel like you're the only people there. Mainly because, more often than not, you are. Then off to Groot Constantia. You must always remember to drive past the first wine tasting place where the busload of camera toting, tube-sock-n-sandal-wearing tourists are dropped off. Or that's what I've always maintained anyway. When we got to the far end of the Estate, the first thing a clearly excited Rose Thorn did was steer me towards an area where she had spotted an owl. The thing was the size of an Andes Condor and was luckily roosting. I used her as a shield.
They were renovating inside the tasting area, so this - although perfectly pleasant - was not quite as spectacular as usual a Groot Constantia experience. We even got told to shut up. As opposed to Eagle's Nest, where only I got told to shut up.

Next we stopped at Raith Gourmet for a spot of lunch. A highly recommended experience if you can deal with the property envy driving though that part of the world. And finally, off to my favourite, Steenberg. We found a comfortable arrangement of couches and got settled in. Slightly erratic weather had caused them to close off the outside area, but that didn't matter. I love it there, inside or out. Having purchased our obligatory wines, we decided to bugger off home and were duly convinced to stay for dinner. Thanks Commander Conker - those gourmet burgers were radical!

I'm glad to report that I have regained the ability to walk. Tomorrow I shall test the legs out as I take on The Promenade again. When WILL this boep go, I wonder...?

Anyway, what a wonderful weekend was had. Apparently Rocking The Daisies was quite rad as well...
I think I'll save myself for Ramfest.

NGDG: Bed time is a fluid concept. The more fluid, the more fluid the concept.